


Viclock Drabbles

by ThisPeep



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Victor Isn't An Asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:27:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1363996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisPeep/pseuds/ThisPeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Random scenes, head canon stories, and snippets of the lives of Sherlock and Victor. In no particular order. Mostly fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting Greg

There’s a man leaning on a wall just a bit away, generally glancing around the scene. He appears to just be vaguely interested, but now and then his eyes will settle on Sherlock and it becomes a more pointed attention. The man doesn’t do it indiscreetly, but if Greg has noticed this than surely Sherlock must have too. Yet Sherlock is still looking away, glancing over the body and seeming shut out from the rest of the world. 

Sherlock gives a sigh and stands up, facing Greg and he looks thoroughly annoyed. “I can _hear_ you thinking. Kindly shut up.” He says, tilting his head at a small angle and looking at Greg through narrow eyes. Greg glances between the man at the wall and Sherlock, and makes a small, incredulous gesture, opening up his fingers and leaning his head forward. Sherlock paused in consideration, eyes trailing from the man to Greg. He face was trained neutral; keeping out expression until he understood what Greg was confused about.

Sherlock barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. As it was his shoulders slackened and his lids dropped, unimpressed. Sherlock turned on one foot, back straightening again and he tilted his head up. “Victor, I think you may be worrying the Detective Inspector.” He called, turning his head just enough that the man (who must’ve been Victor) would be able to see who Sherlock was talking about.

Victor kicked off the wall gently and over to them, walking around the upright chair near the corpse. Once Victor was about half a yard away, Sherlock’s demeanor changed. His shoulders relaxed more, and he had a tint of amusement in his eyes. Victor and Sherlock locked eyes for a while and entered a form of staring contest until Victor snapped out of it and turned on both feet to face Greg. “Sorry. I’m not stalking him, which I realize it may have looked like.” Victor’s voice was deeper than Greg expected, devastatingly smooth as opposed to Sherlock’s underlying rumble. 

Greg, for his part, flustered and raised a hand as if to stop Victor’s insight. “No- I- well. A bit, yeah.” Greg stumbled out, confusion piquing when Victor shot a glanced to Sherlock and gave an amused smile because Sherlock had to repress returning. In fact, he had to avert his eyes press his lips together to avoid it. Victor quickly returned his attention to Greg, clearing his throat and refocusing. Sherlock and Victor seemed incapable of watching each other for any duration without their thoughts getting a bit derailed. 

“It’s fine. I probably shouldn’t have tagged along unexpectedly anyway.” Victor assured, which did manage to sooth Greg a bit but, as he was not being paid attention to, Sherlock let a scowl settle over his features. When Greg turned to better incorporate Sherlock into his vision, though, the expression evaporated back to indifference. Sherlock met Greg’s questioning gaze evenly. Wheels churned in Greg’s mind, coming up with different examples of whom Victor might be. 

Deciding that interruption was over with, Sherlock swirled on his heel, now facing the corpse again and closer to it than Greg or Victor. He was missing something- a very small something that would help solve it. Sherlock was halfway done, but he needed one last connection. Victor’s attention changed with Sherlock’s except instead of a grand spin he merely turned his head. They both scanned over it carefully, and Victor stepped closer to the body, leaning towards and joining Sherlock in the search.

Greg noticed that when their shoulders brushed they held the position. Still looking for the clue, though, and Greg felt the well-known ‘I am completely out of the loop here’ exasperation creeping over him. As if Victor noticed this and decided he should add to the emotion, he leaned forward and whispered something to Sherlock. Sherlock angled his body to Victor more, leaning away for a better look. Victor nodded to the edge of a blood spill, and slowly Sherlock tore his gaze from Victor and crouched down to see it better. It took him mere seconds to find the water, and he quickly stood up and took a breath.

Not an annoyed breath, which is most certainty what he would have done if Greg pointed out something Sherlock had missed. When the air rushed out it came out with a upwards crinkle at the edge of Sherlock’s mouth, even though it was quickly shooed by Sherlock pressing his lips together again. Victor set his shoulders back in response and his eyes held a new shine.

Sherlock spoke to Greg. “It was a suicide.” Which was impossible, because the woman had been stabbed in the back. One could not stab themselves with any ease, and the pressure needed to sever the spine was too great for someone to muster at that angle. Sherlock glanced to Victor, who bowed his head near imperceptibly. The movement led Greg’s attention back to Sherlock unconsciously. 

Sherlock stood straighter and took a breath. “It is possible. There’s water mixed in with the blood and a chair nearby. The room is warm- far warmer than anyone would need it to be. That’s so the ice would melt.” As far as explanations went, it left with more questions than answers. He conveyed that to Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock spread out his arm in a soft arc, ending with it pointing to the chair. Victor took a step back, putting more distance between him and Sherlock’s stage. “Stick a knife in a block of ice, turn on the heat. Then stand on a raised object and allow yourself to fall backwards, the ice will shatter and melt, it looks like you’ve been murdered. The note in victim’s pocket implies her ex partner, made to push the blame upon them. Wanted death and revenge. Simple.” As Sherlock’s speech continued, a small smile gradually formed on Victor’s lips. Once Sherlock concluded it disappeared and Victor schooled his stance into a professional pose. 

Greg nodded slowly, working through the information for a second. “Right. Case close, then?” Unneeded confirmation, although it did elicit a scoff from Sherlock. “There was no case to begin with.” He replied. Victor bit the inside of his cheek, although he was smiling. 

Victor coughed, and Sherlock switched his gaze. “I’ll fetch a cab, hm?” Victor asked, stopping the continued demeaning words that were going to spill form Sherlock’s mouth. Greg found himself grateful, and Sherlock waved nonchalantly which led to Victor giving Greg a fast, polite smile and leaving by the door. Sherlock moved to follow, but Greg stopped him with a mock unassuming comment.

“I like him.” Sherlock stopped walking. He glanced over his shoulder, only turning enough so that he was able to see Greg. There was a stretch of silence, where Greg raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. Sherlock hesitated, then gave an abrupt nod and walked off. Greg grinned once he had gone. He didn’t think Sherlock Holmes would have been the type to have a _boyfriend_.


	2. First Kiss

Sherlock stole a glance, over the top of his book. Looked back at the page. It was all nonsensical, letters that didn’t quite form proper words at the moment. His eyes skimmed, his brain processed, but Sherlock didn’t read. How could he, honestly, when Victor was sitting so close? Laying so close, technically. On Sherlock’s bed. Idly reading poetry. 

Looking like he did. Dark hair messy, but not in an attractively disheveled sort of way. Small, light bags under his eyes from not enough sleep; stayed up studying for a test. His nails were short and he would absentmindedly push his fringe to the side every now and then. Out in the halls, Victor would usually be seen with a dress shirt and trousers, plus a tie. But here, with Sherlock, it was just trousers, a tee, and a pullover. Victor looked comfortable.

It was not a sight seen by most, Victor relaxed and dressed down. (Well, still rather well dressed but not in comparison to his usual.) Sherlock knew it was a privilege to see him like this, which is why he found it hard to take his eyes off Victor. Sherlock’s darting eyes wanted to memorize every detail, from Victor keeping his book open by both resting his thumb between the pages and softly laying a hand over the bottom, to the way he would always read through half lidded eyes. Victor turned pages quietly, even with old books, using his pointer and middle finger. Always started turning before he’d even finished the page he was on, pausing with it stuck in the air so he could clean off those last few words before he continued on with nigh on no break. 

Sherlock blinked at tried to refocus on his book. It was interesting, something that could hold his attention for a bit under normal circumstances. Normal circumstances flew out the door when Victor walked through it, though, and as such Sherlock found himself not paying the text the slightest of attention. No, it was all about the way Victor blinked and dissipating breaths of amusement he would now and then give while scanning lines. 

Or, on rare occasions, when Victor’s eyes would settle on one point and he’d read it a few times. When he did that, there was the chance he would read the piece out to Sherlock. Poetry. Lingering gazes void of confusion were always poetry. Sherlock had never understood poetry until he met Victor, although that sounded like a cliché. It may have well been, Sherlock didn’t care. He had only ever heard poetry be read by someone who was being paid to read it, or a student who couldn’t care less. When Victor read it turned to music. Words flowed and fit, those that didn’t rhyme still held the elegance of those that did. It was in the connections, the emphasis, the emotion.

And so Victor’s gaze settled, and he smiled. Sherlock switched his eyes to his own book because Victor’s would soon be on him. Out of the corner of his vision Sherlock saw that confirmed, and looked up from his book to meet Victor’s gaze. Sherlock closed his book with a fluttering tap and sat up. Victor’s grin widened and he sat up also, shifting and holding the book more certainty. He read, carefully, and Sherlock felt a pang of guilt because he wasn’t listening to what Victor was actually saying. 

Sherlock was watching Victor’s lips move, he was listening to the soothing sound spilling from them, he was feeling the sun stream through the window and onto his back. Sherlock’s muscles were loose, his back was heated, his arms were weightless and slow. There was also warmth sparkling through his chest, unrelated to the sun somehow. When Victor’s voice drew to a close and Sherlock opened his eyes, he met Victor’s fond ones and the background fell away. There was Sherlock, Victor, the soft cover underneath their bodies and the subtle sun’s rays. Everything was gentle and breathtaking. The way Sherlock kissed Victor was no different, Victor’s surprise registered gently, and his returning kiss was breathtaking. 

Sherlock pulled back and now there were bubbles in his chest, slinking up and tickling his ribcage, popping insistently around his heart. Also the comforting pressure of Victor’s forehead against his and Victor’s quiet breathe swirling with Sherlock’s own. Everything was warm and pliable. Victor’s lips were warm and they were against Sherlock’s, whose had gone pliable. This kiss was longer, without the hesitance, and lost himself in it for but a moment. He wanted to remember. Remember Victor’s hand holding with his own, the feeling of sun spreading around Sherlock’s neck and chest, Victor’s fingers barely ghosting over his hair.

They pulled back at the same time, one of Victor’s fingers running through Sherlock’s hair, over his cheek, and across his cheek before being returned to it’s proper owner. The touch that could only be called a lingering brush left a widening line of shivers. Good shivers, the ones that sent sparks of warmth through Sherlock’s skin and after all that (although in reality it had only lasted a handful of seconds) Sherlock had the remarkable feeling akin to covered by a weightless electric blanket. 

Sherlock settled down again, now leaning his head against Victor’s chest. Victor wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and started reading again, although now he’d make sure Sherlock had finished the page before flipping. Sherlock thought it should be odd how they found such a comfortable position so quickly, seeing as they had never done this before, but Sherlock wasn’t about to complain. Victor surely was giving credit to Greek gods, but Sherlock was content just knowing that it had happened. So science didn’t give him an immediate explanation. Usually that would annoy Sherlock. But normal circumstances flew out the door once Victor entered through it, and so Sherlock found himself not caring in the slightest.


	3. Arriving Homes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor goes on many trips, and his favorite thing about them is when he finally gets to return home.

In most relationships as time when on passion dwindled. From what Victor knew of his past ones and what his other friends had said, the longer it went on the more mundane it got. At least stayed the same. So he knew when his and Sherlock’s relationship started out gentle and kept getting more and more fiery, it wasn’t typical. Possibly a once in a lifetime opportunity. Maybe it was both of them getting dangerous jobs, perhaps it was simply how they worked. Either way, by this point everything he and Sherlock did together was charged. 

Whenever they were apart for any amount of time the energy built up. Once Victor was away for weeks. He came back when Sherlock was in the middle of a case, and so Sherlock decided to bring him along on it. At the crime scenes they switched off who was talking every few words, at a rapid-fire pace. Theories were bounced back and forth, speed increasing with everyone. It wasn’t long until workers in the Yard stopped trying to keep up. They’d just wait for the summary given at the end. Sometimes there wasn’t even one of those, the two would simply disappear. Of course, no one but Greg Lestrade knew what they were actually doing, and that suited Sherlock and Victor fine.

Victor had been gone a week this time, and when he got home Sherlock wasn’t there. At least not immediately visible. Victor’s hand rested on the doorknob as he called out Sherlock’s name, bringing no answer. He must have been out. Victor shrugged and placed his bag on the floor (he had been allowed to bring some of his own items this time), then went to start cooking. No doubt Sherlock hadn’t eaten for a while, probably not an actual meal since Victor had left. Victor wasn’t an amazing cook, but some pasta with sauce was doable. 

Some slightly overcooked pasta and sauce, as it appeared after cooking it. Victor flattened one side of his mouth. It could still be eaten, and tasted fine. So all in all, that could have ended much worse. Victor was setting it up on the table when he heard the door open and shut. There was a grand, content sigh. Victor smiled to himself, good to see Sherlock had kept himself busy with another case. Then there was a pause in the flurry of noise.

Sherlock sniffed once and then broke out in a grin. He swept into the kitchen, skipping a greeting to pull Victor into a kiss. Victor slipped his hands through Sherlock’s hair, letting his fingers get tangled in the mess of curls. They both pulled each other closer, mouths slipping open and they were moving. Victor’s back hit a wall and he removed a hand from Sherlock’s hair (resulting in a tug and a muffled moan from Sherlock). Victor’s hand slipped under Sherlock’s shirt and Sherlock cupped Victor’s jaw in his hands, pressing closer. There was more kissing and low sounds made at the backs of throats until Victor broke away with a breathless chuckle.

“I made dinner, you know. It’s going to get cold.” Victor commented, pulling a sigh from Sherlock. No way to get out of having something to eat, because there was no doubt Victor could tell he hadn’t eaten that much. The issue was that Sherlock didn’t feel like eating anyway, and especially not with a breathless Victor in front of him. When Sherlock had sighed, though, Victor had raised a pointed eyebrow and abolished Sherlock’s hope. 

Sherlock reluctantly pulled back. “Fine, fine. Dinner it is.” He said, conceding, and walked over to the table. Sherlock had to hide a smile when he saw that Victor had actually cooked. (It had even turned out to be rather appetizing!) Sherlock ate quickly, and more than he was expecting because after he took a few bites he realized he was hungry, as well as Victor. Victor cleared the dishes and instead of starting on washing them he draped his arms over Sherlock’s shoulders (also the back of Sherlock’s chair, as he was still sitting) and bent down to press his lips to Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock fluttered his eyes closed and tilted his head, letting out a long breathe. Victor only pressed a few more kisses before he slipped around completely and sat on Sherlock’s lap. Arms slipped around his waist as he connected his and Sherlock’s lips, running his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders and down his arms. The kiss broke only when they needed to breath, and Sherlock surprised them both by murmuring, “We still have to wash the dishes.” There was a pause, in which Victor blinked a few times and Sherlock contemplated _why_ , exactly, that had slipped out of his mouth. 

Although it didn’t last long because Victor released a soft huff of amusement and stood up, pulling Sherlock to his feet as well. Victor padded over and started to rinse the dishes before Sherlock was able to protest, so Sherlock settled for wrapping his arms around Victor’s waist and resting his chin on Victor’s shoulder as he washed. Victor hummed in acceptance of the action, leaning back into Sherlock. 

“This would go faster if you actually helped, you know.” Victor commented, much to Sherlock’s distain. He responded by nuzzling into Victor’s neck and holding him tighter. Victor sighed dramatically and slowed down, purposefully making it look hard to do. He looked at the dishcloth and slumped his shoulders for added benefit. Victor heard a dramatic sigh from behind him, but then Sherlock detached himself and started to dry the dished. “Thank you, Sherly.” Victor said, voice singsong and smile bright.

Sherlock responded in pointed silence, arm circling as he paid attention only to drying. There were soft clacks of dishes being put away and fabric rustling when Sherlock brushed against Victor, but no words. Throughout the process of remembering where everything went, Victor hummed the tune to a song with long forgotten words. He didn’t notice, but it made Sherlock smile. 

The last dish was put away, and a contented stream of air left Victor’s lips. Sherlock started to move, going towards the living room, but Victor caught his arm and pulled him into a kiss. “Dishes are washed.” Victor murmured against Sherlock’s lips, as if in explanation. 

Sherlock chuckled and wrapped his arms around Victor securely, kissing Victor again before responding. “So it appears.” Was all Sherlock got in before Victor pulled him even closer and teased his mouth open. Not that he would have actually wanted to speak because Victor was cupping his jaw and moving him backwards against the door and making very appealing sounds from the back of throat. Sherlock’s hands somehow ended up tangled in Victor’s hair and he was arching off the wall slightly before he broke away just long enough to ask, “Bedroom?” And get a confirmatory nod. Then he was pulled back into tongues and lips and _Victor_ and Sherlock wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws another fluffy drabble at you all*  
> *skitters off*


End file.
